Custer at the Alamo

by Gregory Urbach

  “We should wait until all their guns are in range,” I decided.

  “We’ve been fired on since the moment we rode in, and the Alamo is so low on ammunition, they rarely return fire. It won’t hurt to slow those siege works down a little,” Tom suggested.

  “Okay. Just enough to make them duck,” I reluctantly agreed.

  Tom waved to Cooke. He and Butler came running with their rifles and my Remington.

  “That’s a long shot,” Crockett warned. “My Tennessee boys have wounded a few across the river. That battery is only three hundred or so yards off. These rascals are a lot farther.”

  “We’ll see,” I answered.

  Butler returned first with his modified Sharps carbine, rubbing dust off the sight. Tom had borrowed a Springfield, his Winchester better suited to shorter ranges. My Remington hunting rifle was the only one in the command with an octagonal barrel, giving a distinctive appearance. I had used it while hunting elk on the Black Hills Expedition.

  “One shot each, gentlemen. Best hit wins,” I announced.

  Crockett and Jameson thought we were crazy. Seeing the attention on the wall, Travis came up to join us. John Baugh and Almaron Dickenson quickly followed. Had the Mexican artillery been fortunate at this moment, they could have wiped out most of the Alamo’s commanders. When Spotted Eagle and Gray Wolf joined us, the packed dirt firing platform grew crowded.

  “Other than presenting targets for the enemy, what nonsense is this?” Travis demanded.

  “A shooting contest,” Crockett said, loading his Kentucky long rifle.

  I saw it wasn’t the famous Old Betsy we boys had read about in grade school, but still a good weapon in capable hands. He took out a powder horn, tapped in a bit of powder, added a piece of wadding, and dropped a round lead ball down the barrel before packing it down with a ramrod. A spot of priming powder in the flash pan and a flint would ignite the gun powder. Such muzzle loaders were used early in the Civil War until paper cartridges came into regular use.

  Crockett knelt at the wall, took careful aim, and squeezed the trigger. A delayed half second later, the rifle fired with a puff of black smoke. A speck of dirt kicked up about a hundred yards short of the Mexican entrenchment. Several soldiers digging a new ditch looked up without much concern. One laughed.

  “Just a touch far off,” Crockett concluded.

  Tom did not bother to kneel down. He opened the trap door on the Springfield, loaded a copper cased 45-55 bullet in the breech, and snapped it shut with the lever. He then sighted the most likely target, a sergeant standing above his men giving orders. When Tom fired, the sergeant keeled over, shot through the shoulder. Several men rushed to his aid.

  “Howdy do, boy!” Crockett shouted.

  “Good Lord,” Jameson added, taking the Springfield from Tom to look it over. Travis took the gun from Jameson, opening the trap door and staring at the firing mechanism.

  It seemed everyone in the fort was suddenly watching our game. Men on the adjoining gun platform, and on the roof of the long barracks, were waving to their fellows who could not get a view. They had wondered what our strange weapons could do.

  “My turn,” Butler said, kneeling where Crockett had and gazing down his sights.

  Butler was using a customized falling block Sharps carbine. Though a single shot weapon, it had great range. I had never faced off against Jimmy in a contest, but everyone knew he was a crack shot. He took his time, watching a group of peasants as they crowded around the wounded sergeant. But one man was better dressed, possibly an officer. Butler held his breath for a moment, then squeezed off a shot, hitting the man through the forehead. The blood spray was visible even from such a distance.

  Most of the peasants dropped their shovels and ran. Those who remained ducked behind their partially dug earthwork.

  “You didn’t leave me much to shoot at, Jimmy,” I complained, taking his place on the wall and kneeling to steady my aim.

  “General, you couldn’t beat my shot even if you had something to shoot at,” Butler bragged, which certainly was not true.

  I saw an officer come forward yelling at the workers to pick up their shovels. A few obeyed. The man’s uniform was not elaborate enough to be a colonel, or even a captain, though I was not an expert on such things. I guessed him to be a lieutenant. Three soldiers in white were following, two carrying cannon shot, the third a small powder barrel.

  I noticed Slow had made his way up on the platform, standing at my elbow. He seemed intrigued with the proceedings.

  “A warrior’s game,” I whispered, happy to see the quiet boy so excited. “Would you like a shot?”

  “I have come to see the sunrise,” Slow said.

  “That was hours ago,” I replied.

  “There will be another,” the youngster insisted. How he had guessed my plan is something I’ll never know.

  “Gentlemen, it saddens me that we did not place a wager on this contest,” I said.

  “Get on with it, Autie. We’d all have aimed twice as good if money had been involved,” Tom said. As usual, he was probably right.

  I didn’t need to think twice about my target, taking aim at the unlucky private carrying the powder barrel and squeezing the trigger. The powder barrel exploded, a brief fireball lighting the gray day. A second sunrise. The man carrying it was killed instantly, his companions burned. When I last saw the junior officer, he was crawling for the trench with his arm on fire.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” Captain Baugh whispered.

  The men watching from the walls and the roof of the long barracks sent up a cheer. Travis returned the Springfield to Tom and walked away without comment.

  “Looks like I’ve won, gentlemen,” I casually said, ejecting the spent shell.

  “Lots more targets,” Butler glumly said, studying the entrenchment.

  “No, Jimmy. It might slow them down a little, but the siege works will still get closer. Better an overconfident enemy than a cautious one.”

  Tom nodded that he agreed. Cooke made a note in his memo pad.

  “My cousins think we should steal the iron guns,” Morning Star said. “Spotted Eagle says we could come on them under the moon while they sleep.” I turned to look at Gray Wolf and Spotted Eagle, liking their aggressive attitude. But in this situation, it wasn’t very practical.

  “Good thinking, lads, but they’ll have pickets guarding the batteries,” I said, using my hands to emphasize some of the words. “If we attack, it will be at dawn.”

  I wrapped an arm around Spotted Eagle’s shoulders and walked my party down from the firing platform, receiving another cheer from the garrison. I tipped my hat with a smile. Then a cannon shot flew over the fort, whistling as it cut the air and almost hit the corral. Tom was right about it being annoying.

  * * *

  The bombardment continued throughout the day, sometimes several guns in rapid succession, followed by a lull.

  I met with Jameson and Crockett inside Bowie’s quarters next to the south gate. The room was small, warmed by a wood-burning stove, and decorated with colorful painted tiles. The dirt floor had a small woven carpet and rushes. The plank table was surrounded by three rickety benches. A Mexican woman, the cousin of Bowie’s late wife, hovered nearby with broth and a pitcher of brown ale.

  The officers were divided on how to proceed, none of them experienced in siege warfare. Having lived through the siege of Petersburg at the end of the Rebellion, I knew there would be but one outcome. Even Robert E. Lee had not been able to fend off the inevitable. After my inspection of the fort, I’d spent some time thinking of a plan that might achieve victory—or at least a stalemate.

  “What do you think?” I asked, pushing a hand-drawn map of the Alamo out for Jameson to study.

  There was just enough light given by the candles for him to see. He dwelt on it for several minutes, tracing lines with his finger.

  “It’s a lot of work. And fatal if the enemy doesn’t respond as you think,” Jameson fin
ally said.

  He gave the drawing to Bowie, who lay bedridden on a cot. He was useless in a fight, but as leader of the volunteers, he held the most sway over the garrison. I hoped. Travis had gained a great deal of respect for his stubborn resistance.

  “Didn’t like defendin’ these walls to begin with. This here is even crazier,” Bowie said, making to put the map in a candle flame. The paper had almost caught fire when Crockett snatched it back, tapping out the glowing embers on the table.

  “It’s sneaky. Maybe what we need, but an awful risk. I thought you wanted out in the open? Smack the enemy on their own ground,” Crockett said.

  “Travis may be a pompous amateur, but he’s right about the odds,” I reluctantly said. “The thirty extra guns my command brings aren’t enough to drive off an assault by three thousand trained troops. Even after bringing up the rest of my men, there are only a hundred of us. Once the ammunition gives out, the fight’s over.”

  “So this is your plan? Give up the strength of our position?” Jameson said, taking the map from Crockett and rolling it up. “I’m sorry, sir. You mean well, but Travis knows our situation better. Once Houston and Fannin arrive, we’ll push the Mexicans back across the Nueces just like we did before.”

  Jameson got up and left the room. Bowie pulled up his thick wool blanket and went back to sleep, his late wife’s cousin quietly parked on a stool next to the bed. A Catholic crucifix hung on the wall above him.

  Crockett and I entered the small quadrangle in front of the church. An offshoot of the main compound, the area was guarded by the rough timber palisade and two cannon. With the long barracks on my left and the lower barracks behind me, the position formed a fort within a fort. Crockett and his Tennessee boys, many of whom were not really from Tennessee, had been assigned the area’s defense.

  I walked back toward the main compound, shaking my head. According to Cooke, the Alamo encompassed three acres. Too many walls, too few men. The fort was quiet at the moment. It had rained again, keeping everybody indoors except for the sentries.

  “We can present your idea to the men. Take a vote,” Crockett recommended.

  “You’re a good man. I see why the people of Tennessee sent you to Congress. But an army can’t be led by voting. If you rely on these beaten down old walls to keep out the enemy, you’re all going to die. It won’t be a matter of weeks, but a matter of days.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. When Fannin . . .”

  “David, Fannin isn’t coming. You know it, so does Travis. How many of your men would stay if they knew?” I asked.

  “We’ve got to hope, George. What else is there?”

  “If you see a chance for victory, you take it. You don’t stop to think. You don’t wait for advice. You don’t call for a vote. You charge with everything you have and batter the enemy until they break.”

  “Is this a military strategy or your philosophy of life?” Crockett asked with a grin, for he was good at reading people. Like most politicians.

  “It’s worked for me so far,” I answered.

  “Care to explain where you’ve come from?” he questioned after hinting all afternoon. “The weapons. Your uniforms. Even the saddles on your horses. Not like anything I’ve seen before.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me. I hardly believe it myself.”

  “Does it have anything to do with that Indian boy?” Crockett asked.

  “Why would you say that?” I replied in surprise.

  “Had a talk with him. Odd sort. I’ve known plenty of Indians. Known their families. Sat in their sweat lodges smoking the pipe. They see the world different than we do, but it don’t mean their vision is any worse.”

  “I really don’t have an answer for you. We helped Slow and his family while riding south, and they just sort of fell in with us.”

  “Riding south from where?”

  “That’s where the story gets complicated,” I said, unwilling to say more until it started to make sense.

  There was a thick oak gate between the long barracks and the church leading to the corrals. I passed through into the rear of the fort, where the walls were lower and our horses were bunched together against the cold wind. A sturdy lean-to was used as a livery and blacksmith shop. From there it was a short walk to the corral holding sixty horses, most belonging to the Seventh. In the enclosure beyond, I counted about thirty head of cattle. Voss was not watching our mounts. Or Sergeant Hughes. Or even Corporal Foley.

  Suddenly I realized that none of my men were around, as if they’d just disappeared. My heart beat faster, wondering if another strange occurrence was taking place.

  A moment later, Kellogg appeared with Morning Star. I didn’t see Tom or Cooke.

  “In the chapel,” Kellogg said, seeing my concern.

  “General Custer, your people have much spirit,” Morning Star said rather elusively. She took my hands, giving them a squeeze, and gazed at me with an uncomfortable admiration.

  The Alamo church was not the hump-shaped building I had visited in 1865. The hump was a feature added by the Army Corp of Engineers several years after the battle, while they were converting the ruin into a warehouse. Several of Crockett’s men watched me from the palisade as I went to enter, apparently expecting trouble.

  The inside of the old church was also different from my previous visit. The roof was gone, replaced by a partial skeleton of beams where the roof should be. The wide floor area, that had held supplies for troops, was now filled by a long dirt ramp leading to a battery at the rear of the structure. At the top of the ramp, three large cannon were perched ten feet above the ground. It was a strong position, allowing the artillery to guard the approaches from the swampy prairie to the east and the Alameda to the southeast. The only sheltered rooms were to the left and right of the door where several families had taken residence. The church walls were the thickest in the entire compound.

  The men of the Seventh Cavalry were assembled at the bottom of the dirt ramp, some sitting on the ground and others on tree stumps. Tom and Cooke were standing. Two of the Alamo defenders were manning the battery, watching but remaining quiet. Wrapped in blankets against the damp air, Slow and his two older cousins were halfway up the ramp, interested in the proceedings. The boy was particularly attentive, his black eyes searching for nuance as well as meaning.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked, seeing many guilty expressions.

  “We’ve got a problem, Autie,” Tom said, coming down the ramp to intercept me.

  “That’s obvious. How does hiding in this old church help?” I replied.

  “We’re not hiding, George. We needed time to talk,” Cooke said.

  Outrageously so, for in ten years of serving together, he had never used my first name in front of the rank and file.

  “Bill and I had lunch with Kellogg. He is a fount of information,” Tom said. “Discovering ourselves here, in this strange place and time, is hard enough. Our families are gone. Our wives and girlfriends. From how I figure it, Pa is a year younger than I am now, still living with his first wife in New Rumley. You and I haven’t even been born yet. Or Libbie. Each of us is trying to decide what it means. But when Kellogg reminded us about the history of Texas, that was really the last straw. We called the men together for a talk.”

  “I don’t see the point. We are where we are. Let’s get back to work and cry in our soup later,” I ordered. “I’ve conferred with Crockett and Jameson. With a little persuasion . . .”

  “We’re not getting back work. Not here,” Cooke said.

  “Autie, in a day or two, Texas will declare independence. And then they’re going to write a constitution. A slave constitution,” Tom explained. “Ten years from now, they’ll join the Union as a slave state, and fifteen years after that, they’re going to join the Confederacy.”

  “If we help these Texans, we’re helping the goddamn slavers. Helping that goddamn traitor Jeff Davis and his plantation overseers. I didn’t join the army for that,” Butler said, a
hand fixed on his Colt.

  “Me either, sir,” Voss added. “I left Germany for freedom in America. Freedom for all, like Mr. Lincoln wanted.”

  “What happens in the future is for the government to decide. It can’t be our concern,” I said, pointing Voss and Butler toward the door with a frown.

  “It is our concern,” Tom said, holding Voss back. “We’re pretty close to a decision here, and I’ve got a hunch our decision is to leave.”

  “Leave? You can’t be serious. Don’t you understand? This is the Alamo for God’s sake!” I shouted. “The Thermopylae of modern times. A victory here will be immortal. It will dwarf our victories in the Rebellion.”

  The men looked down, some grumbling. Many were cold, impatient, and unhappy. I could not understand their reluctance. Tom motioned for Cooke and Butler to step back, revealing himself as the conspiracy’s leader.

  “Autie, maybe it is Thermopylae. Maybe you’re Leonidas reborn. But we aren’t three hundred Spartans,” Tom said, looking at me with disapproval. “We’re thirty ordinary Americans who think slavery is a dirty business. And certainly not something worth dying for.”

  “I was too young to serve in the war, sir, but my father and uncles did,” Corporal Foley said, standing at Tom’s side clutching his rifle. “28th Massasschuetts. Uncle Daniel lost a leg at Cold Harbor.”

  “Sir, I lost a brother at Shiloh,” a young private added, red-faced with emotion.

  “General, sir, we spent four years fighting the Rebs. Lost family and friends. A lot of them Rebs were from Texas. I just don’t see how helpin’ now makes any sense,” Sergeant Butler growled.

  “I was in Washington the night they shot President Lincoln. So was Tom,” Cooke said, his voice firm as a glacier. “We stood vigil outside Petersen’s boarding house as he lay dying. Lincoln was a great man. He died to make this land free. Free from the Atlantic to the Pacific.”

  “I know you and Pa are democrats,” Tom added. “You thought slavery would fade away on its own, given enough time. But it didn’t. Slavery died in a bloodbath like this world has never seen, and Texas was on the wrong side.”